His
by Castalia
Summary: Yuki reflects on the strange sequence of events that have led Shuichi into his life.
1. Chapter 1

**His**

Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I in any way officially affiliated, with the characters and situations in this story. Gravitation is the original creation of Maki Murakami.

A/N: This narrative starts at the concert where Shuichi suddenly shrieks "Yuki is mine!" onstage.

* * *

So. I'm his, am I?

That moron. How like him.

No one has claimed me for years. No one. Not my publishers, autocratic as they might be. Not my family, but then, my parents never did. Not Tohma..._not even Tohma_, though sometimes I wonder if he might have if he weren't so worried. Poor little knight, he's been worried so long. This will hardly make him stop.

You'd think that I would be angry. _I'd_ think that I would be angry. And _he_ definitely thinks I am. I can see it in the way he's slowly sagging under the silence and the lights, in the apprehension creeping in beneath defiance. Now he peers into the crowd, seeking me out. There's something so absurdly pitiful, so idiotically endearing, about that.

Damn. I can't let him see me smile. Hurry up, turn it into the blank, unreadable stare that drives him crazy with confusion. I'm good at blank.

He's found me. I hope no one else does, because now the crowd is murmuring, trying to figure out what's going on, and who this Yuki is. I'm never in the mood to be mobbed, and at the moment, I want some time to think.

Who _is_ this Yuki? I thought I knew. I thought I had life, and all the trappings thereof—like people—figured out. I make my living by that understanding, and by telling people the stories they want to hear. I knew what I wanted, and when I found it, I bought it: house, cars, furniture, women. Women easiest of all, because what they were interested in was the image and the money. It made them so terribly, terribly predictable and easy to control. _Veni, vidi, vici_.

At 22, I'd achieved what my father hadn't yet, for all his attempts: a well-ordered life. I had exactly as much furniture as I needed and wanted, and not a stick more. I knew what I was doing: write for a couple of months, duck my editor for a couple of weeks, do a couple of the tiresome promos she fished out, repeat. I knew how my world worked...or so I thought.

Now I'm starting to wonder.

It would have been different with anyone else. How many times had I tossed off an insult, a judgment, a criticism? Certainly often enough. It's one of my many failings. Believe me, I know I have them. My short fuse is another, and that night, it had already been lit. Mizuki and I were going through the same damn process we do every time. She asked; I waved her off. She begged; I ignored. She threatened; I yawned. She pursued; I ducked. You'd think by now she'd realize that I always do turn in a manuscript—no false modesty required, I'm quite a prolific author by anyone's standards—and leave me alone to work. But she never does, and so tonight was just another step in the dance we always do.

I hate dancing.

There are a lot of things I hate, in fact. If you're keeping track, that's already Failing #3. When I'm working out my writer's block, I hate to see other people wasting their words. When I'd give anything to find a few more of my own and finish a manuscript, if only to get Mizuki off my back for another couple of months, it irritates me to find that other people have a surfeit of words and think nothing of tossing them off. If you can't use them properly, give them to me. I have a doing-what-I-damn-well-please habit to support.

But I'm wandering from the point much, in fact, as I was wandering through the park that night. My latest piece was close to completion, but the way to the ending eluded me. I'd have to find it tonight. Mizuki had left a chirpy little message in my voicemail, informing me that she'd be "stopping by" in the morning. I hate chirpy people. That cutesy chipper attitude makes me want to shove a chopstick up their left nostril, and that's Failing #4. I could brush her off, but then I'd just have to deal with her again in a week or so. By then, I might have chopsticks.

My readers might frown on that.

No, it would have to be that night, so it would have to be the park. I walk there often before a deadline, always at night. It's a change of atmosphere without being filled with irritations...like people. It cools down, it quiets down, and even the few people around have the good grace to mind their own business; the paths are a different world when lamplight and the moon are all there are. I can walk there and still hear myself think, and I like that.

It took two hours of wandering before the spark of inspiration struck. I paused to light another cigarette and stayed standing there, turning the idea over. Yes, it would fit properly. Now, to just head home and phrase it... _More words, dammit_.

A rectangle of much-folded paper came flying haphazardly through the night and into my chest, fluttering briefly before it dropped to my feet. I eyed it. _That wasn't a request to the Litter Fairy, but thanks_. Closely following the paper's arrival, there were footfalls—frantic, graceless, rubber slapping the pavement, sounding immediately like someone I sure as hell didn't want to deal with tonight.

Now there was panting, too. I looked up and saw some kid coming at me full-tilt like some kind of demented lovechild of a windmill and a freight train. His arms and legs were flailing, and as he hit each patch of yellow lamplight, I could see him more clearly. _What, in the name of all that's profane, is he wearing?_ There was an impression of general disarray and wildly clashing colors. Maybe it was a windmill, a freight train, _and_ an acid trip. More people ought to consider wearing fewer colors than there are letters in their names. In any case, the sight confirmed my first opinion. He was definitely someone I didn't want to deal with tonight, but it didn't look like I had much of a choice.

I continued to watch as he pelted toward me. When he got close enough for it to register, I pinned him with a glare. _It has not been a nice night, and now there's _you. Much to my gratification, he faltered, stopped, even took a step back, looking down. I followed his gaze to the paper that still rested at my feet. _Ah. You intrude on me, I intrude on you._

Slowly, deliberately, I bent forward and picked it up. He started to move forward again, reaching out, but I stopped him with another glare and read the messy, disorganized scrawl. Wasted words...but then, I hadn't really expected anything else.

I looked back at him, narrowing my eyes a bit. He was tense, fidgety, clearly a little scared. Good. "Did you write this?"

"Um...y-yeah." The kid squirmed more, clearly restraining both indignation and a hopeful, puppy eagerness for someone to praise him. He let out a nervous little laugh.

Nails. On a bloody. Chalkboard.

"You write like you're on a third-grade reading level," I said scornfully. "Is this drivel really your idea of a love song?" The wind was picking up again, and I let the dingy little scrap slip out of my grasp and flutter far away. "Are you nuts?"

He stared at me, stunned. I started to walk past him, but paused as I drew up level. His mouth was still hanging open slightly. _Idiot boy._ I glanced at him sidelong and adopted the tone of voice I normally use on Mika: somewhere between icy coldness and casual contempt. "If I were you, I'd consider learning a reliable trade." I resumed the walk back to my apartment. Bestsellers just don't write themselves.

And that was that.

* * *

A/N: Obviously to be continued. Whew, this is turning out to be longer than I thought—I originally pictured it as a brief oneshot! This is my first Gravitation fanfic, so some feedback from the veterans (writers and authors both) would be greatly appreciated. 


	2. Chapter 2

As far as I was concerned, that chance meeting in the park was over. Done. The end. 

It was certainly the furthest thing from my mind a few days later, as I worked my way through traffic on my way home. I wasn't getting anywhere fast, a sure sign I'd spent too much time with that woman...Minako? Misako? Mitsuko? No, wait, her name was Yuri. She hosted some television show Mizuki had coerced me into doing that afternoon. I'd told her, on-camera and to her face, that I didn't think love was a necessary emotion. (Mizuki almost went into convulsions in the audience. Now that's entertainment.) Nevertheless, she asked me out for drinks, and I accepted. She was very attractive, and I was giving myself a couple weeks' break before I started my next book.

Everyone should have a hobby.

Foolishly, I hadn't realized the woman would talk so much. I don't think there were more than five or six minutes altogether when she _stopped_ talking. Despite that, all it took was a couple of drinks and a couple of smiles, and surprise—we ended up in her bed. Evidently, we spent longer there than I'd intended. Must have been all that talking.

About the time she started chattering about how her friends would just _die_ to hear that she'd "been intimate" (ha) with Yuki Eiri, I noticed the clock. Damn. It was raining outside her over-decorated little apartment, too. Double damn. I excused myself rather abruptly, and she pressed an umbrella and her number on me, then stood at her door blowing kisses. I'd decided she was annoying, so I tossed her number into the first trash can in the lobby of her apartment building. I kept the umbrella. It _was_ raining.

The rain didn't help traffic in the least. _Haven't these people heard there are too many cars in Japan? _I flipped between radio channels before settling on my favorite song: silence. With the radio off, I could hear the flat staccato of raindrops on the car roof. It was a good thing I'd taken the Mercedes today; I didn't really fancy being in a convertible in a rainstorm. Perhaps it's a little odd, but I like to have more than canvas over my head when the sky starts throwing things.

_Lovely, just lovely_. My fingers drummed on the steering wheel, mimicking the rain's rhythm overhead. Just as there had been a break in the traffic, I came up against a red light. Pedestrians streamed across the pavement, filling in what had been beautiful, empty space. There seemed to be no end to them. I could feel myself begin to tense, undoing all that...relaxing I'd done with what's-her-name. I narrowed my eyes as the light turned green and people continued to make their merry little way across. _Hmm, there're women out there. Running over a reader would probably be a_ bad_ thing._

The moment the way was clear, I gunned it, ignoring the squeal of protest the tires made against the sodden asphalt. I likewise ignored the squeal of the straggling pedestrians who got splashed when the wheels spun. As far as I know, there's no law against vehicular passive-aggressiveness. Reasonably satisfied with that small triumph, I shook my head, easing the tightness in my neck and banishing the threats of a headache that were creeping up on me. I'd be home soon enough, making coffee and having a smoke.

When I turned back to the road, there was someone standing right in the middle of it. In my lane.

I swerved. The wheels locked momentarily, sending the car skidding at an angle. I probably swore, but it's hard to say for certain. I _did_ hear people screaming, and most of all, I heard whoever was in the street yelling something demented. It was a remarkably loud voice.

The car shuddered to a stop, narrowly missing several others. I wrenched the door open and got out, glaring at the idiot in the road. That's when it occurred to me that it was an idiot I'd seen before. His arms were outflung dramatically, and the expression on his face told me it was no accident he'd jumped in front of _my_ car. _For the love of every last damn little fish in the ocean, it's that kid from the park._

I went from 0 to Migraine in about .2 seconds.

Almost a minute passed while he stared at me and I glared back, getting my voice under control. "Get someone else to help you commit suicide, jackass," I said icily. There was a lot more I could have said, but the near-crash had stopped traffic and drawn the attention of just about everyone on the block. Once it became apparent there wasn't going to be fatalities, or at least yelling, people started honking their horns and shouting for us to get out of the way.

The stupid brat still hadn't said anything. I gritted my teeth. The rain still hadn't let up, and it was soaking all the way through both jacket and shirt. "Just get in the damn car, okay?"

He stayed mercifully quiet during the drive, but by the time I pulled into the garage, my head was throbbing and just his breathing was getting on my nerves. I got out and stalked off to my building without even looking at him. I didn't want to, and I didn't have to. The little pest followed me all the way into the apartment anyway. _I guess his parents never told him not to get in cars with strangers. Maybe it's because he's such an irritating child._

First things first. I left him dripping all over my living room and went to shuck off the wet, clammy shirt, snagging another indiscriminately. While I pulled it on, I grabbed a towel...and as an afterthought, a second one. This I chucked at him on my way through to the kitchen, before he could do permanent damage to the hardwood floor. In the kitchen, I lit a cigarette and decided that my headache demanded beer, not coffee.

Then, and only then, did I return to confront the little problem that had followed me home. Before I could start to berate him for his stupidity, he had the absolute nerve to ask me what _I_ had against _him_.

"What do you think? You tried to smear yourself all over the bumper of my precious Mercedes," I retorted.

"Not that...er..." he said coherently. I arched one eyebrow, and he rushed on. " That's understandable. I mean the other night, in the park." He hadn't applied the towel properly and was still dripping, and that look was back in his eyes. That dumb puppy look. I guess it was strangely appropriate—he _had_ made a puddle on the floor.

I sipped at my beer, pretending to think it over, then gave him my patented blank stare. "What are you yapping about?"

The effect this tactic had on him was very enjoyable. To me, that is. It was only fair, really, considering how much trouble he'd caused me that night. While he flailed around—literally...the kid has a penchant for melodrama—I took control of the conversation again.

"I think you ought to tell me what the hell you were playing at tonight. _Were_ you trying to kill yourself? Or were you just trying to get my attention with your loser tactics?"

He flailed more wildly. "I'm not a loser! I'm Shuichi Shindou! _Shuichi Shindou_!"

_Yes, because _that_ means a lot to me._ I shrugged off his outburst, trying not to wince as his voice clawed at my eardrums. I was going to need a lot more beer if this was going to go on much longer. A handy liter or so would be favorite. "Whatever. Loser, Shuichi. Shuichi, loser." As I flicked ash from the end of my cigarette, I see-sawed my hand in the new international sign for _"you say 'potato'..."_ before taking another drag, elaborately long. "You still haven't answered my question."

"I-I just wanted to see you again!"

That was not the answer I was expecting. Clearly, this kid was nuts. He was blushing now, until his face was in the same color family as his hair. His hair was pink. It should say a lot that at that moment, that struck me as being one of his _smallest_ issues. "You really are pathetic," I said, keeping my voice somewhere between off-handed and scathing for maximum effect. "Poor, poor pitiful pop star."

He actually jumped. Then the flailing resumed. _What is this kid on? Methamphetamines with a rocket fuel chaser?_ I studied my nails while he spluttered. "B-b-but you...you said...you said..."

At that rate, it was going to take him all night to get the full sentence out. I realized I wanted him out of my apartment _much_ sooner than that. As in, immediately.

"I lied, you moron. Believe me, I've tried _very_ hard to get your crappy lyrics out of my head, but then my memory wakes up screaming. They were so awful that they're classifiable as a transmittable disease." I could see him gearing up to interrupt, but that just wasn't going to happen. "You should be ashamed of inflicting them upon the world. You have less than zero talent. Trust me."

He was getting all teary by now. I might have felt guilty about it if I hadn't had a headache. But then again, a lot of women have tried that on me and it didn't work, so why should it work from some snot-nosed brat I was trying to get rid of?

"Get out of my apartment and go home. And I'm telling you now, if you ever get in front of my car again... I'll run you down."

I opened the front door pointedly, and he ran out sobbing. _Damn kid._ I closed and locked it after him, then went to get another beer. Harsh? Yes, but I didn't have time for that kind of crap. Anyway, that ought to do it.

_No one_ would possibly come back after a speech like that, right?

They just wouldn't...right?

* * *

A/N: I know, I know. Yuki's a jerk, and you've seen all this before. I guess what I'm trying to do here is provide a possible mental map. We see a lot of the early encounters through Shuichi's POV and conversations, and Yuki's just this incomprehensible scary guy. I wanted to explore how and why he went from _that_ to smiling when Shuichi does his "Yuki is miiiine!" thing. Anyway. Feedback is, as always, very much appreciated. Thanks for reading. :) 


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